


a ghost of wind through the grass

by summerstorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Secret Relationship, secret in the canon s2 way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingers push through his hair, tugging, and he's short of breath when he pulls away to look at her, his eyes glazed. </p>
<p>"Hey," she says, glancing at his mouth, "want to eat me out?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	a ghost of wind through the grass

**Author's Note:**

> For a kink meme prompt that asked for Scott going down on Allison and that being their favorite thing. I have a weakness for werewolves giving oral, so I couldn't resist. Title from Marge Piercy.

Scott's been kind of obsessive about Allison pretty much since he met her, one of the many things Stiles makes sure to point out at every opportunity, but these days, it's not a joke or even exaggerated: he literally can't get enough of her. It's not even keeping their relationship out of the public eye—for all the good that's done—that's hard; having a relationship is where it gets tricky. Their plans are always breakable, their means of communication unreliable at best, their choice of setting extremely limited. Sometimes, making time to be together is like beating up a clock in hopes it will cough up an extra hour in which neither of them is supposed to be anywhere. 

It's—worth it, it's absolutely worth it, it would be worth it even if he could only see Allison for an hour every other week. The thing about not knowing when his next date is going to be, though, is that he wants everything in this one, and ends up incapable of focusing on anything but Allison, her warmth and her smile and the texture of her skin, the way her mouth tastes, the little noises she makes when he kisses her neck, the weight of her breasts through two layers of fabric, the scent of want, growing and intensifying until it's strong enough to send him that much further off the rails.

Allison laughs when he growls against her chest; her entire body vibrates with it, rising and leaning away from his bent knees. He wraps an arm around her thighs to lift her higher and holds her there as he pulls the top of her dress down to her waist with his other hand. He fully intends to take her bra off next, but it's too easy to continue his downward trail of kisses, to bite at the swell of her breasts and catch the way her shoulder blades stick out, almost cradling his hand as she arches into his mouth.

"You can take it off," she murmurs. He wraps his fingers around the back strap for a second, still distracted and mouthing at places her dress just exposed—the edges of her collarbones, the soft skin around the straps of her bra. He knocks them off her shoulders with his nose just before he undoes the clasp. He straightens up minimally, raising his chin to look at her, and she leans in for a kiss, pressing closer so her bra's trapped between their bodies and stays in place. When he moves away, she holds him off with a hand on the back of his neck, and says, "T-shirt first."

He glances down at the place her chest meets his, the way her bra is almost out of view.

"Shirt," she reminds him, and he blinks and looks up, and blinks a few more times until he's recovered enough focus to release her and yank his t-shirt over his head. It falls, rumpled, toward one of the corners of the blanket they're sitting on when he tosses it aside, and all the while she stays where she is, unsupported but looking comfortable, with a forearm over her ribs barely keeping her bra from falling. 

He lies down on his back and pulls her down with him, one hand on her waist and one on her bra so she can let go and prop herself up over him. She ends up falling lightly on her elbow, trailing her free fingers down his bare chest, splaying them over his stomach.

"Let go," she says, a corner of her mouth quirking up.

"What?"

She lifts herself up on her hand and widens her eyes. "My bra. Let go of it."

"Oh," he says, and tightens his hold on her breast, sliding just far enough down her body for his mouth to be level with her jaw. She drops back on her elbows so he doesn't have to stretch his neck to lick the hollow of her collarbone or kiss between her breasts, and he lets her bra slide inch by inch, mouthing at her skin as it's uncovered. Her heartbeat is a steady rhythm in his ears, a light hitch in the way her chest rises and falls with every breath, but he can still hear her gasp when he pokes her nipple with his tongue and catches it between his teeth, too light to be considered a bite but hard enough for her to feel it. He smoothes it over after, wrapping wet lips around it, and moves on sloppily to her other nipple, kissing and sucking at warm skin, holding her bra against her ribs, her side, until she pries it from his hand and tosses it with his shirt.

That probably means she's going to keep her dress on the whole time, what with being in the middle of the freaking woods with no cover and the cool night chill settling in, but he knows from experience they can work around that. It's a pretty flexible dress, and she left her tights in her car, so he can drop his hands on her knees and slide them up her thighs without worrying about ripping anything.

Her hips buck at that, the stability of her body over his almost collapsing for a second, but she recovers quickly, says, "Don't stop," in a way that sounds like it's for her own benefit rather than his. 

He's not sure where he's going; her scent is headier now, both the abstract note of lust and her physical reaction to it, and all he can do is bury his face between her breasts and breathe her in, kiss the space between her ribs, as low as he can reach without moving, without crawling under her.

Fingers push through his hair, tugging, and he's short of breath when he pulls away to look at her, his eyes glazed. 

"Hey," she says, glancing at his mouth, "want to eat me out?" A lock of hair has fallen over her eye, making her look almost shy, but the smiling way she bites her bottom lip tells a different story.

He shakes his head a little, willing himself out of his haze. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yes. Of course. Please." His babbling only makes her smile wider, like she's holding laughter back with her lips. He's pretty sure that's a good thing.

He goes to roll them over, get her comfortable on her back, get some mobility back, but her weight doesn't budge easily like he expected; her knees stay firm on the ground. He could push past that, she likes it when he pushes past that, likes to put up a fight against being pinned to the ground and win, but there's purpose in her stillness and the fact that he could push past it just means he needs to pay attention to those cues. 

Nodding, she places a hand on his chest, pushing him to lie down properly. He goes willingly, letting his head rest on the blanket, returning his hands to her waist, her ribs, her bare breasts. He thumbs idly at her nipples, enjoys the light shiver along her body, the way it makes it harder for her to concentrate.

"I was thinking…" She trails off and finishes the sentence with her hands instead: reaching under her dress and taking her underwear off, lifting her knees and pulling it off one leg at a time. She doesn't go back to straddling his hips now, kneeling up instead, like she doesn't want—like she's worried about getting his pants wet. He's about to slip a hand under her dress to test that theory when she hands him her underwear and says, "Feel them."

He's closed his fist around the fabric already, so it's crumpled into a ball, but he doesn't have to try hard to see what she means; the crotch is soaked through, and he just wants to taste her now, so badly. "Do you want me to hang onto these?" he asks, and she blinks at him.

"No," she says, looking something between thoughtful and confused, "no, get rid of them," which he does, his hands slipping under her dress as soon as they're free. "Wait, here," she says, like she's going to give him something, and crawls up the blanket with her knees at either side of his body, lifting them over his shoulders so she's hovering over his face and fuck, he didn't mean to dig his nails into her thighs that hard, but she smells so good and he knows it's going to feel even better.

"Can I—" he asks, the rest of the question too obvious and too difficult to phrase properly at the same time. He raises his head instead and inhales.

"I don't know, I like the sniffing."

He looks up at her, frowning. "You do?" It doesn't seem like something that would do that much for her—he always thought she just put up with it, chalked it up to werewolf hormones or something and made an effort to act okay with it for his sake.

"Yeah, I love it," she says breathlessly. "It made me kind of self-conscious at first, but now it's like—" She briefly lowers her hips to brush damp curls against his mouth, pulling away just before he reacts, just before he lifts his chin and tries to get at her. "—like you really, really like it. Like you're not just doing it for me."

"I'm not," he says, "I do like it," the words impatiently rushing over themselves. He distracts himself from tugging her forward or making her lose her balance by stroking the back of her thighs, hands edging upward under her dress, cupping her ass. She gives in again, and this time he holds her there long enough to bite her inner thigh and lick a line up her pussy. She may have meant to move away again before, but she hesitates now, bouncing on her knees and settling back within reach, gravitating slowly toward his face without any effort on his part. It's like once she's touched, she can't stop being touched; he doubts anybody likes to stop in the middle, but it takes one second for her to start clinging.

He's not sure why she even bothers with the teasing; that part is definitely not for him, because he loves it when she just pushes his head down between her legs without question and she knows it. But sometimes she likes to go slower, put off coming for the first time, so maybe this has something to do with that, maybe that's what she wants right now.

He presses his mouth to her softly, kind of shallow, opening her out with closed lips. It's ridiculously difficult not to just go for it, but the first time he lets his tongue peek out and lick, she gasps and stutters and her thighs tense with the effort to keep still. If she's making an effort to stay still, then it's only fair he follows along. He rubs the flat of his tongue against her slowly, letting her get used to that before sliding lower and edging the tip inside her, rhythmic motions to get her buzzing. His nose brushes up against her every now and again, bringing out moans that she swallows halfway, but he steers clear of her clit other than that, fucking her with his tongue instead until she's helping out, rocking her hips against his mouth.

"You make so much noise," she murmurs, so low he probably wouldn't have caught the words without supernatural hearing. 

At some point when he wasn't looking, she's pulled up her dress, though the sleeves are still hanging off her shoulders. Neither of them really thinks someone's going to catch them like this, but it's still outdoors, it's still a concern.

He pulls away from her with a kiss, and asks, "Do you want me to make less noise?" The second she takes to think that over is more than enough for him to reconsider the whole stopping idea and nuzzle the inside of her thigh, the coarse hair at the top of it. It's easier to ignore how tight his jeans feel when he's busy.

"Can you even do that?" She makes it sound like such a lost cause he almost laughs.

"I can try," he says, but the scent of her arousal is really distracting and he has his nose—and mouth—buried in it on top of that, so it doesn't sound very convincing, either. It doesn't sound very much at all, in fact. What does make noise is licking at her again, even gently; he wasn't paying attention to it before, but now she's brought it up, the wet sounds are really obvious, and he highly doubts he can work around those.

He's about to ask if it really matters when she laughs and starts rocking her hips again. It's insistent now, her little thrusts spreading wetness from his chin to his nose, and he just breathes out in relief and breathes her in, opening his mouth and lapping at her in earnest. A whimper rolls down her body when he kisses her clit, and her breathing starts coming faster, louder when he strokes it with his tongue, alternating messy licks and soft sucks until she falls back on her hands and stops biting back her moans.

He slows down then, drawing back.

"Hey," she says, her voice pitched like a whine. He was going to ask if she wanted him to draw this out—she doesn't always have the presence of mind to say it—but hearing her like that just makes him remember how hard he is.

"Sorry," he ends up saying, his voice rough, "can you—can you open my pants? Just—"

"Do you want me to suck you while you—" Her knees shift like she's going to move, so he tightens his fingers on them, keeps her where she is.

"No, no, just unzip them or something, I want—" He swallows; he sounds frantic, and he doesn't want to make the next bit sound like they have to do it. "I want to fuck you after—" He pokes her thigh with his nose to explain.

"After I come?" she supplies, and he nods gratefully.

"Yeah."

She makes a little frown at him and says, "But you recover really fast," and his eyes widen and he's not even sure why—some kind of apology, maybe, which is ridiculous because she'd have to split her focus to go down on him and she's not very good at that.

"Not fast enough for you to make it to dinner on time."

"You say that like it's going to take me two minutes to—" She gasps before he even sucks on her clit, just at his lips closing around it. "Fuck, okay," she blurts, and reaches back blindly to undo his jeans, which means she cups him through his jeans, first, and then over his boxers to stretch out the v of his open fly. He lets his head tip back and just bites his bottom lip until her hand goes back to the blanket. 

Her pussy brushes against his chin, then, the kind of comfortable Allison only gets when she's been on edge for a while, and she says, "Didn't you promise me something?"

He laughs dryly and grabs her hips to pull her forward, until it's her knees supporting her again and she's practically sitting on his face. She gets started before he does, grinding down against his lips, but it's the easiest thing to catch up with her, open his mouth and follow her lead, especially now she's holding her dress up to keep it out of the way, bunched in a tight fist over her stomach. When she comes, it's with a choked-off cry, her body tensing and the muscles in her thighs going hard under his hands. Her hips start rolling slow and lazy as she comes down, never pulling away, only repositioning herself so she's propped up on her hands, at first, and then shifting her weight little by little onto his chest. 

"Come on, get me ready," she breathes, legs stretching on either side of his head. She's even wetter now, so he assumes she wants him to get her going again before she has time to calm down, to let the relief of orgasm wash over her. She'll still fuck him if it does, probably, and get into it, but it's better when she's into it from the beginning. Sometimes giving her a head start turns into full-on eating her out again, but she's better at stopping when she's come once, and he's better at letting her go when she's not pulling away just to tease him.

But she's not pulling away yet, just reaching down to lift her dress and waiting for her heart rate to slow down. He'd think she's letting him set the pace, but at this point he's too scattered to do much more than kiss and lap at her, and it's kind of a mess even then; she's too slippery to give her actual friction. It's fine because she doesn't want that straight away anyway, and he's happy to take her in like this, at his leisure.

The first thing that stops is the pressure on his stomach, and then Allison pulls her feet into his shoulders and rolls off him in a move he doesn't think he could replicate even with werewolf reflexes. He licks his lips and thumbs off his chin as she reaches for her bag. Looking back, she says, "You look so disappointed."

"I'm fine," he says, because he is. What he's not is naked, and he rectifies that quickly, as she's already discarded her bag and is holding up a condom, which is historically her way of saying _hurry up_ without actually looking like she's in any hurry.

He pulls her down onto her back and crawls over her, and she wraps her arms around his neck, whispering a quick, "Thanks," before she kisses him. She breaks into giggles in like two seconds, and he's not sure if it's because he tastes more like her than like himself by now or because he's rutting against her thigh and pawing at her breasts. 

Either way, she sobers up as soon as he slips two fingers inside her, her hips coming up to meet his wrist for a second before she bats his hand away.

"I'm ready, come on," she says, already tearing open the wrapper, and if she doesn't want to wait, well, he's not going to make her.


End file.
